


followed a dream and a strange desire

by Rhovanel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I tried to do a fix-it and ended up breaking everything even more, I'm sorry Dorian, M/M, More on the Angst side, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, nothing good comes of romancing the apostate, sad but hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-31 15:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: The first time Dorian flirts with Solas, he means it as a joke.Neither of them are laughing now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawnstonedagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstonedagger/gifts).



Dorian has no hesitation when it comes to death. 

In his hands, death is both a weapon and a shield. He uses it to send tendrils of fear across a battlefield, leaving his enemies scared and scattering. He wraps it around himself like armour, throwing himself into every fight without abandon. He does not dread the rushing darkness. 

What he is beginning to dread, however, is ending every battle in the same way: flat on his back, staring into the furious eyes of the Inquisition’s resident apostate.

In the Hinterlands, he takes a swipe from a great bear while setting fire mines in front of the party. When he regains consciousness, Solas is crouching over him.

“Ah, Dorian,” says the Inquisitor from somewhere behind Solas’s shoulder. “Glad to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living.”

Dorian stretches his limbs and sits up. “Well, despite opinions to the contrary, it is far more interesting than the Fade.”

Solas glares at him and stands up, turning his back.

“What, you’re not even going to help me up?” Dorian exclaims. “I’ve just suffered a heroic injury for the good of the party!”

“I’m sorry,” Solas replies. “I think you have mistaken me for one of your slaves.”

In the Fallow Mire, he flings himself into an Avvar ambush and manages to set off an immolate spell just before he takes an axe to the back. He wakens to find himself on the side of the marsh, Solas kneeling beside him with a pained expression on his face.

“If you would just use a barrier correctly, we could avoid this tedious routine,” Solas sniffs.

“Ah, but barriers are so terribly dull. Flames are much more invigorating.” He stands up and makes a futile attempt to get the grime off his clothes, then turns to Solas with a smirk. “Maybe you should try it sometime. You could use a bit of…vigour.”

Solas scowls at him.

In Crestwood, after a messy encounter with a wyvern, he opens his eyes to find himself half cradled in Solas’s lap, the glow of the restoration spell still ripping across his skin.

“Why Solas,” he says with a rakish twist of his lips, “if you wanted to take me in your arms, you but needed to ask.”

“ _Pala adahl’en!_ ” Solas drops him hard on the rocky ground and stalks away.

Dorian sits up slowly, laughing at Solas’s retreating back. "Worth it,’ he smiles, rubbing the back of his head.

But despite their differences, he finds himself seeking Solas out during the party’s long treks through the wilderness. He is intrigued by his quiet reserve, and his conversation does much to enliven the tedious of the Thedas landscape.

“Solas”, he asks one afternoon, “you do something with the Veil - you _twist it_ \- and it makes your spellcraft stronger for a time.”

"Yes,” Solas replies. “Manipulating the loose threads of the Veil allows me to control its stray magic.”

“Oh!” Dorian exclaims. “So you only target the _loose threads_ , which would not only avoid tearing the Veil apart, but actually prevent it from unravelling further. Clever. That would require a high degree of control.”

“I hope you are not asking me to teach you. I doubt you have the delicacy, the way you enter every battle with all the subtlety of a charging bull.”

“Please, there is already one bull in this party, could you at least choose a more distinguished animal? How about an august ram - do you think antlers would suit me?”

Solas mutters a curse, and they walk for a time in silence before he speaks again. “Are you truly so intent on throwing your life away?”

“Of course not,” Dorian replies. “But we Tevinters have no reserve - we do nothing if not with complete commitment.”

“Is that your own opinion, or are those the words of another?”

Dorian frowns. “Oh, well…it’s just something we all say.”

“And I suppose slavery counts within that fiery commitment of yours?”

“Must you hold me personally responsible for every crime of the Imperium?”

“If you choose to claim the virtues of a group, then you must claim their faults as well.”

Dorian mulls over Solas’s words. “I…see your point. I suppose I shall remain as ardently wicked as I am valiant.” He tries for a lighthearted tone, but he can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Solas glances over at him. “Dorian, it would not hurt you to exhibit some restraint. There is a very fine line between passion and recklessness.”

“Of course there is,” Dorian replies. “But is that not the point of living?”

Solas doesn’t respond, but Dorian can see him looking at him thoughtfully.

*******

In the Storm Coast, they encounter a group of Red Templars camped at the top of one of the cliffs. Dorian sets off an immolate spell, but he mistimes the detonation and it explodes in his face, flinging both him and Solas backwards off the cliff.

The next thing he knows, he’s being hauled onto the beach by a sodden, furious elf.

“Have you no finesse? You could have killed us both!”

Dorian coughs up a mouthful of seawater. “I’m fine, thank you for your concern, no need to worry.”

Solas looks up to the top of the cliff, where the faint sounds of swords and shouts can be heard. He glances over his shoulder as Dorian staggers to his feet, then sets a brisk pace.

Dorian follows more leisurely. He keeps his magic burning under his skin, warm enough to raise his body temperature. He likes the feel of the control it takes, of walking that fine line between holding the flame and setting himself alight. It makes him feel alive.

Before too long steam is rising slowly off his clothing. He can sense Solas glaring at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Must you be so terribly wasteful? You’ll require a lyrium potion before long if you keep this up.”

“Well, I can’t very well arrive back into camp looking like a drowned rat, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“You are entirely insufferable!”

“Yes, yes, my existence offends your ascetic sensibilities, I am well aware of that.”

Dorian glances over. Solas does look miserable, and he feels a sudden pang of guilt - after all, it is his fault they ended up in the water.

“Stop for a moment. I could…”

“I don’t need your help,” Solas snaps.

“I know you don’t need it, but I am offering it to you all the same.”

Solas fixes him with a stare.

“Look - if I direct the energy under my skin towards you, then you’ll be able to warm yourself up.”

“Are you mad? You’ll boil my blood before anything.”

“Of course, boiled elf is quite the delicacy in Tevinter,” Dorian mutters, then realises that sarcasm was probably not the best choice for this moment. “I’m sorry, that was…uncalled for. Just let me help you.”

Solas looks unconvinced. “It will take a high degree of control,” he says dubiously. “Something which, as you’ve already demonstrated, is not a quality you have in reserve.”

Dorian feels a sudden stab of rage at this arrogant elf who presumes he knows everything there is to know about him. “Perhaps appearances can be deceiving,” he snaps. “And perhaps beneath your repressed exterior lies a little less control than you would have us believe. Come now, Solas,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. “Live a little.”

A flash of an emotion crosses Solas’s face, too fast for Dorian to catch it.

“Fine,” Solas says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dorian moves so he’s standing in front of him. “Lift up your shirt.”

“What?” exclaims Solas, taking a sudden step back.

“ _Vishante kaffas!_ ” Dorian snaps, all patience lost. “Do you know nothing about anatomy? If I direct the heat towards your extremities, we’ll both waste energy trying to warm your core temperature. If I have to direct it through your clothes, I might set them alight. Although…that would not be such a tragedy.”

Solas scowls at him. “Fine,” he says again. He takes off the belt that clasps his tunic, and Dorian steps forward and quickly slips his hands up under his shirt to lay his palms against his back. He concentrates on slowly, carefully, delicately directing his magic outward. For all his bluster, he’s not convinced that this will work. But he can’t shake the feeling of needing to prove himself to Solas. 

For a long moment he thinks that nothing is happening. But then he feels a foreign magic wrapping around his own, drawing on his energy. He knows the general shapes of Solas’s magic from fighting alongside him on the battlefield. Now, he can feel the elegant lines of it curling between his own, wrapping around his spell work and drawing the heat away. 

It’s extraordinarily intimate. He feels acutely aware of every inch of his body - the saltwater that still coats his mouth, his palms pressed against the muscles of Solas’s back, and the feel of Solas’s magic under his skin. It has been some time since he’s touched another man so closely, and even longer since he’s engaged in any kind of magically accentuated foreplay, but this is something else entirely. 

To make matters worse, Solas reaches up suddenly and grips his arms just above the elbow, his long fingers digging into his skin. Dorian lets out a gasp and accidentally flares his spellwork, and Solas hisses in alarm.

Dorian pulls his hands away and takes a shuddering step backwards.

“ _Fenedhis!_ ” Solas exclaims. “I knew you lacked the control for this.”

“I lacked control? You were the one who decided to get handsy!”

“I did not!” They’re both breathing heavily, and Solas can’t quite look him in the eye. He reaches down to pick up his belt and re-fasten his clothing. Dorian can see his hands trembling. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I didn’t…hurt you, did I?”

“Besides throwing me off a cliff and into a churning icy sea?”

“Well, besides that,” Dorian replies.

“No,” Solas says. “Your idea worked. I…apologise for startling you.”

“No need.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“You are a talented mage, Dorian.” Solas says suddenly.

“Yes, I know,” he replies.

“But that talent would not be diminished if you learned a little more control.”

“And there it is,” Dorian groans. “An earnest compliment from Solas? I knew it was too good to be true.”

Solas chuckles softly. It’s the first time Dorian has ever heard him laugh, and it fills him with a warmth more powerful than anything his magic could provide.

“Come on,” Dorian says, and they walk in companionable silence back up to the top of the cliff.

*******

They fight better afterwards, more attuned to one another’s spellwork. Dorian manages to use barriers more effectively, and he imagines he can see a little more style in Solas’s spellwork. 

Of course, he still ends up throwing himself in harm’s way and waking up to Solas’s face. But now, he just looks bemused, even concerned.

“You must be more cautious,” Solas says one day, holding out a hand to help him up.

“Yes, so we’ve established. Recklessness does not equal heroism, passion does not win out over common sense.”

“No,” Solas says. “Well, yes, but…you should show more care with your life.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at him.

“I...you..." Solas pauses. Dorian has never seen him at such a loss for words. "You have so _much_ of it,” he finishes with a frown.

The Inquisitor sidles up beside them, interrupting Dorian’s thoughts before he can formulate a reply. “Glad to see that the two of you are getting along better. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that day you ended up in the sea, would we?”

His eyes flick to Solas’s. They both glance away.

“No,” Solas says smoothly.

“Of course not,” Dorian scoffs.

He knows they’re both lying.

*******

_Dorian dreams._

_He dreams of a pale green tapestry, fraying at the seams._

_He dreams of flames against a wall of ice, both consuming the other until nothing remains but curls of steam._

_He dreams of walking along a line of hot coals on a rocky beach. They never burn his feet._


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian stands in the vestibule of the Winter Palace, pretending to listen to Josephine’s fourth repetition of their code of conduct. On his left, Cassandra is barely concealing her impatience, shuffling and sighing. On his right, Solas is as composed as ever, his face a mask of polite interest. 

His attention snaps back to Josephine at the sound of his name.

“Dorian, you’ll be stationed in the garden. Mingle with the guests, learn what you can, try not to offend anyone. Please?”

“Why am I the one who has to mingle?” he asks with affront.

“Come now, Dorian,” Leliana smiles, “would you rather we placed Cassandra in this role?”

“And subject the court to the wondrous conversationalist that is Lady Pentaghast? Hardly.” He sees Cassandra shoot him a glare out of the corner of his eye.

“Your charm does make you the most suitable candidate for that position,” Solas adds. 

Dorian turns to him with an eyebrow raised. “Oh, so you think I’m charming, do you?”

“Must you turn every comment into another ornament for your vanity?”

“Only when they’re such delightfully low-hanging fruit.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra groans, “we do not have time for this.”

Turning back to Josephine with a smirk, he sees the ghost of a smile flicker across Solas's face.

*******

Later, after events have played themselves out as they will, Dorian stands on the balcony, breathing in the cool night air. The night has brought back memories he’d long pushed to a corner of his mind - of being young, and frustrated, and filled with shame.

He senses a figure approach, and turns to see Solas, who comes to quietly stand at his side. They stand in companionable silence for a time.

“When I was a young man, I would attend balls with my family,” Dorian suddenly offers. “I liked the intrigue, and the gossip, and the liveliness of it all. My mother would always have a parade of young women for me to dance with. Oh, I danced with them all, smiled at the right moments, followed all the steps.”

He takes a sip of the drink in his hands. “But I used to dream about what it’d be like to dance with one of the eligible young men in the room. To cause a scene on a scale so gargantuan my mother would never be able to put the pieces back together with the right comment or the right weight of coin.”

He sighs. “Maker’s breath, I sound a right romantic fool, don’t I?”

“You sound like a man who was seeking an agency that was denied him,” Solas says quietly. “There is nothing shameful about that.”

Dorian blinks, surprised at the comment.

Solas turns to face him. “ _Vyn alas’niremah i’em?_ ” he asks.

Dorian frowns, unable to recognise any of the Elven. “Are you drunk?”

Solas takes a step back and holds out his hand. “I said, dance with me.”

“You _are_ drunk.”

“Quite possibly,” Solas replies. He doesn’t lower his hand.

Dorian opens his mouth to make a snide remark, but something in Solas’s face stops him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he steps forward and takes his hand.

His youthful fantasies usually involved dashing young magisters or courtiers, not cantankerous elves. But Solas is a surprisingly good dancer, lithe and elegant on his feet in the way all elves are.

“Where did you learn how to dance?” he asks. “I should hardly think your asceticism lends itself to such frivolous pursuits.”

“I have not always lived the life I do now.”

“Is that so?” Dorian says, but he knows it without a doubt to be true. There’s a light in Solas’s eyes tonight, a brazenness in his gaze and his actions that he can’t quite put down to the flush of drink. It’s as though he’s seen a glimpse underneath a mask. It’s unnerving. It’s also completely alluring.

“Is this the part where you tell me that you did spend your youth frolicking naked beneath the moonlight?”

“Would that be so shocking?”

“Hmmm…” Dorian murmurs. Is he _flirting_ with him? Well, he thinks, two can play at that game. “If you can find me ten silk scarves, I can show you a dance that would be truly shocking.”

Solas chuckles. “Intriguing. But I think it might be a little late in the night to steal the silks of the court.”

“Murder, betrayal, assassination - what’s a little petty theft between friends?” Dorian quips, and is rewarded with another laugh. An image of his mother’s horrified face swims to the front of his mind, and he stops suddenly.

“Well, if I cannot teach you that dance, I can show you something else.” He looks at Solas with a questioning glance, half expecting a protest about the ideological filth of Tevinter culture, but he simply shifts his hands to allow Dorian to lead. 

Dorian slips a hand onto the small of Solas’s back, and tugs him closer. “Ready?” he asks, and steps forward at Solas’s nod. He spins them more rapidly than they had been moving before, gliding in an arc around the balcony.

“We would dance this later in the night at balls,” Dorian explains. “Usually with your partner or your betrothed or perhaps a family member. It was considered too reckless for acquaintances.”

“And why is that?” Solas asks.

“I believe the idea was that after a long evening of dancing and drinking, you could only move this quickly with someone you trust.”

Something in Solas’s face softens.

He picks up the steps quickly, much to Dorian’s annoyance. “Is there anything you’re not good at, you infuriating bastard? Besides talking to people, or having any sense of style, or not being constantly fatalistic?”

“I suppose that was almost a compliment,” Solas remarks dryly. 

“Oh no, we couldn’t have that, could we?”

Solas just smiles. His face is very close. _When did he get so close?_

Dorian can feel his heart hammering in his chest. Solas’s cheeks are scattered with freckles, and he feels a bizarre urge to trace them with his fingers. Their eyes meet, and something warm unfurls in his stomach at the sight of his grey irises flecked with blue. 

_Maker’s breath, have his eyes always been that colour?_

Neither of them are moving any more. His eyes drop to roam down the elegant line of his nose, to trace the full curve of his lips. If he just leans forward-

“Having a nice time?” The Inquisitor’s voice startles him out of his reverie, and he feels Solas drop his hands and flinch away from him, a blush spreading across his face.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says, folding his hands behind his back in an attempt to restore his usual calm demeanor.

The Inquisitor crosses their arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Where have my mages got to, I wondered? Perhaps something required their immediate magical expertise? Well, it looks like there’s plenty of magic happening out here just fine.”

Solas sets his face in a scowl. Dorian feels a stab of fondness at the sight of that familiar expression.

He looks back at the Inquisitor, who is smiling knowingly at him. “Don’t you have something more important to be doing? Assassinating someone, perhaps?”

The Inquisitor just laughs uproariously and strolls back into the ballroom.

Dorian runs a hand through his hair. Solas sighs. “There is enough gossip about you already. I fear this will add more.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Dorian says lightly. “No one will ever believe it.” 

Solas smiles softly, and walks back to look out over the balcony. Dorian joins him, picking up his glass and twirling it in his hands.

“Besides,” he adds, “I did just learn one truly scandalous secret that would put all of the gossip about me to shame.”

Solas frowns at him.

“You blush like an innocent maiden,” Dorian says with a grin.

“Oh for- really?” Solas groans, but Dorian can see another blush creeping across the top of his cheekbones, and he throws back his head and laughs.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“We had best return to the party,” Solas says, straightening and turning back towards the light of the ballroom. Dorian thinks he looks a little unsteady on his feet. He feels somewhat lightheaded himself.

“You had better not be drunk,” he says. “If you hurl on my outfit…”

“I can assure you, your finery is in no danger from me.” Solas turns suddenly, his gaze travelling down Dorian’s chest. “Not unless you wish it,” he says, his voice deeper than normal.

Dorian gapes at him. He can feel his brain short-circuiting. _Kaffas_ , he can feel his whole body short-circuiting. 

Solas's eyes linger on his hips before making their way back to his face. He turns on his heel and walks away. The tips of his ears look decidedly pink.

“…bloody bastard,” Dorian mutters to himself. Downing the remains of his drink, he turns and heads back towards the light and chaos of the Orlesian court.

*******

_Dorian dreams._

_He dreams of a precipice over a churning sea. The grey water glints blue where the sunlight catches it._

_He knows he should be frightened, but he only feels resolve when he steps off the edge. He always wakes before he hits the water, but it never feels like falling._

_It feels a lot like flying._


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian leans on the railing of the rotunda, book in his hand, but he suspects he’s fooling no one, least of all himself. He’s been rereading the same page for thirty minutes. His attention is entirely absorbed in the mage beneath him.

He watches the curve of his neck while he reads at his desk. He follows the swing of his hips when he walks across the room. He drinks in the play of the muscles in his shoulders and back while he works on one of the Inquisitor’s frescoes.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he mutters to himself. When he’d first arrived at Haven, he’d despaired at the lack of entertainment. If someone had told him he’d end up happily spending his days obsessively ogling the damn apostate, he’d have laughed all the way back to Tevinter.

His only consolation is that Solas seems even more out of his depth. When Dorian tried to talk to him about the Winter Palace, he’d begged for some space.

“Dorian, I - you have not been what I expected,” he had said. “But there are…considerations. I need some time to think.”

“Alright,” Dorian had replied. “You know where I’ll be.”

But he can feel Solas’s gaze on him when he turns his back to peruse the bookshelves of Skyhold, and he hopes he figures it out sooner rather than later.

***

On a trek through the Emerald Graves, Varric sidles up to him.

“When are you going to put Chuckles out of his misery?” he asks.

“Varric, Solas may be a walking crime against style, but I hardly think murder is a suitable punishment.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Oh?” Dorian says lightly. “And what did you mean?”

“Well, if I were to take a storyteller’s licence, I’d describe his expression when he looks at you as somewhere between lovelorn puppy and starved wolf.”

“Lovelorn pup-" Dorian splutters. He glances away from Varric to the top of the hill, where the Inquisitor and Solas have stopped. The Inquisitor is gesturing at something in the distance, but all of Dorian’s attention is focused on Solas. In profile on the hilltop, in the dappled sunlight of the forest, he looks like he’s stepped out of ancient Elvhenan - otherworldly and elegant and powerful.

Dorian snaps back to attention at the sound of laughter. 

“And yours would be reverent lust,” Varric offers.

“I believe that’s an oxymoron,” Dorian snaps. “What kind of a writer are you?”

“A very successful one,” Varric replies. “Look, just shove him against a tree or something and be done with it already.”

“I don’t believe I asked for your romantic advice.”

“Oh, so it’s a _romance_ now, is it?” Varric asks, grin growing wider.

Dorian just crosses his arms.

“Honestly, Sparkler-” whatever Varric was about to say is lost under the roar of a giant, who suddenly lumbers through the trees. It starts moving up the hill to where Solas and the Inquisitor are drawing their weapons.

“No!” Dorian cries. He races up the hill, easily outpacing the giant’s lurching gait.

“Sparkler, stop, that’s too close!” he hears Varric call, but he ignores him.

He shoots a curse at the giant, drawing its attention away, then detonates the curse in an explosion just as the giant’s fist connects with his chest.

The last thing he hears before he loses consciousness is Solas shouting his name.

***

He awakens, as always, to Solas’s furious face. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” he groans, rolling himself into a sitting position, his head in his hands. He glances up to see Solas towering over him, simmering with rage.

“We have discussed this! You cannot keep flinging yourself into the line of fire without abandon or without sense!”

“It was _not_ without sense!” Dorian snaps. “If I recall correctly, that giant was about to take your head off, and then where would we be?”

“The situation was under control!”

“Well, that’s not what it looked like from my perspective!” Dorian stands up slowly. His head still throbs, but he can feel it lessening with every beat of his heart.

“So you would jeopardise everything for your own sense of pride?”

“What?” Dorian scoffs. “This is about cooperation, not pride!”

Solas throws up his arms in anger. “When will you learn to show some caution?”

“Maybe when you learn that you can’t always be right about everything!”

“You are an insufferable ass!”

“And you are a bloody stubborn bastard!”

Solas’s face is flushed with anger, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes bright. He takes a breath as if to say something else, but Dorian grabs the front of his tunic, pulls him towards him, and kisses him.

Solas freezes, and Dorian thinks he’s made a terrible mistake. He pulls back with a frown.

Solas stares at him for a second before practically lunging at him, slamming him up against one of the _Vallasdahlen_. He kisses him with desperate fury. He kisses him with all of the will of his whole infuriating, obstinate personality. 

Dorian thinks he could break under the force of it, and he wouldn’t regret a second.

He grabs Solas’s hips and pulls them flush against his own. Solas _growls_ , and Dorian feels a spool of heat curling through his belly.

“Wait,” he gasps. Solas simply drops his head to trail kisses along his jaw. “Solas, have- _ah_!” He groans as he feels Solas’s teeth graze his neck. “Have - have you been talking to Varric?”

Solas whips his head back up to stare at Dorian. His face is enough of an answer, and Dorian can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” Solas mutters, but a small smile plays across his lips. Dorian glances behind Solas’s head to see Varric standing in the distance. He gives them a thumbs up.

“I hope you’re prepared for this to be recorded for all posterity in the annals of Thedan literature.”

Without looking behind him, Solas raises his arm and directs a crude gesture towards Varric. Dorian starts to chuckle with surprise, but is interrupted as Solas’s smiling lips find his own.

Dorian wonders how he ever thought that smile was soft. It’s sharp like a blade, and in that instant, he knows it will shred his heart to pieces.

He kisses him anyway.

***

_Dorian dreams._

_He dreams of teeth grazing over skin, of sweat-slicked limbs, of desperate hands clutching fabric._

_He dreams of soft laughter and gasps, and cries muffled against bedsheets._

_He dreams again of the sea. Wave after wave building and cresting and crashing down, sliding smoothly away over the sand._


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian knows he’s in trouble.

He knows how these relationships work. He knows what to expect, and what not to expect. They might spend their nights together, but he’ll always wake alone. They’ll have fun for as long as it lasts, and then they’ll go back to sniping at one another on the battlefield.

So he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Solas is always still there when he opens his eyes. He’s usually wrapped himself around Dorian’s back, or is half draped across his chest, as if he can’t quite believe he’s real unless he’s touching him. Dorian wonders how lonely he must have been. He’ll never be able to fix the emptiness in his past, so instead he traces small circles along his hips, strokes lines down the the arch of his back, trying to rewrite his muscle memory so it only knows an abundance of touch.

He doesn’t know what to do with the way his heart stutters when only one of them travels with the Inquisitor’s party. Whether he’s standing on the battlements of Skyhold or sitting by a campfire, he watches the stars in the night sky and feels a pit of yearning in his stomach, an anxiety he can never silence. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the way Solas looks at him sometimes. If he were to borrow Varric’s poetic license, he’d say it was the way you’d look at rain after a drought, or a campfire after a trek through the snow - an awestruck relief tainted with the fear that rain will turn to flood, and a fire will burn to ash. But this isn’t one of Varric’s novels, so he doesn’t think about hope and ruin. He just kisses his lover until he can’t see the sadness in his eyes.

But more importantly, he doesn’t know why he’s lying to himself. He knows exactly what all of those things mean. Every last one.

*******

Two weeks after Solas kisses him against the _Vallasdahlen_ , Dorian discovers he can no longer sleep alone. 

He’s stayed late in the tavern, drinking and gambling with Bull and Varric. He’s had too much to drink and has probably lost too much money, so he excuses himself from another round of Wicked Grace and returns to his bedroom.

It’s dark, and cold, and horribly empty. He turns on his heel and marches down to the rotunda, where he can see lamplight flickering along the wall.

Solas is sitting at the desk, a battered volume in his hands. He glances up with surprise when Dorian enters.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I could say the same for you,” Dorian replies.

Leaning over the desk, he snuffs out the lamp and plucks the book from Solas’s fingers in a fluid movement.

“I believe I was reading that,” Solas says.

“Well, bring it with you,” Dorian replies, tugging at his wrist.

“Dorian, I need to finish this tonight. I cannot be…distracted.”

“If you think I’m sober enough to do anything tonight but fall into blissful oblivion, you are sorely mistaken.” Dorian tugs at his arm again. “Hurry up, you stubborn bastard, I’m tired and cold.”

“You are entirely insufferable,” Solas replies, but allows himself to be led out of the room. 

In his quarters, Dorian lights the lamp by his bed and strips to his smallclothes, but refuses to let go of Solas’s book until he has climbed into bed next to him.

“Here you go,” he says, drunkenly placing the book on his chest. He rolls over to the other side of the bed. “Don’t stay up all night.”

He closes his eyes, but opens them a minute later at the touch of Solas’s hand on his shoulder. “Come here,” Solas says softly, tugging him back across to his side of the bed. Dorian obliges, pressing himself up against his side, one hand splayed across his stomach. Solas shifts the volume to one side so Dorian can lay his head on his chest.

“Go to sleep, _ara’len dan_ ,” Solas whispers. Dorian is too drunk to question the unfamiliar Elven, and he falls asleep to the gentle touch of Solas’s hand stroking through his hair.

*******

Weeks turn into months, and Dorian discovers the pleasures of reunions.

The Inquisitor has taken Varric and Solas to Redcliffe to deal with some problem with Cole. He hopes it’s not some weird spirit puberty. Dorian didn’t question Solas when he announced he was leaving - there was enough anxiety etched into the lines of his face already. 

So he waits, and worries, and walks around the rotunda until Leliana shouts at him for disturbing her crows.

He ends up spending most of his afternoons training with Cassandra in the yard. Technically he doesn’t need to be proficient with a sword, but he likes to be prepared to fight without his magic, and he likes honing his body as sharply as he does his mind. More importantly, he likes riling Cassandra up about her reading habits. She really is a delightfully easy target.

He’s there one afternoon when he hears the horn blast that signals riders in the distance, and he throws his sword to the ground and heads toward the gates.

When he finally sees Solas, he feels a wave of relief so potent he almost staggers with it. Solas’s face is drawn and anxious, and he scans the crowd until his eyes find Dorian’s. The answering look of relief on his face makes Dorian’s heart skip a beat, and he starts pushing through the crowd.

Solas dismounts his horse just as Dorian reaches him.

“Dorian,” he begins, but Dorian just sweeps him up and into a passionate kiss. 

Dorian has triumphed over demons, and darkspawn, and every last damn creature in the Thedan wilderness, but nothing has ever made him feel as powerful as taking his lover in his arms in the middle of a crowd, and kissing him without shame and without reserve.

Solas reaches up to cradle the back of his head, and he hears someone wolf-whistle behind him. When he eventually breaks the kiss, Solas shakes his head.

“Was that really necessary?” he asks, but a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Dorian replies. “Perhaps we need to try it again to to be sure.”

He leans back in, but Solas suddenly turns his head away, gripping his arm “Dorian, what-” He runs his fingers along the bruises from Cassandra’s practice sword. “Whatever have you been doing?” he snaps.

“It turns out Cassandra does not take kindly to constructive criticism on her literary tastes.”

Solas glares at him. “I see our time apart has done nothing to curb your recklessness,” he says. 

Dorian sighs and takes a step back. “Yes, yes, spare me the lecture.”

“I will look at them later. I do not trust you have been taking adequate care of yourself.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Can I not have five minutes to greet you before you start trying to get me out of my clothes?”

Solas rolls his eyes. “Insufferable,” he mutters.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Dorian smiles.

“No, _ara’len dan_ ,” Solas replies, his hand reaching up to cradle his face. “I would not.”

“What does that-” Dorian begins, but Solas just kisses him softly, his hands roaming gently down his back.

“Oi, you two!” Varric shouts. “Take it indoors before I see something I will never be able to erase from my mind.”

“You should be thanking us, Varric,” Dorian calls over his shoulder. “We’re a veritable goldmine for your books. I expect royalties.”

He turns back to Solas at the touch of his hand on his face.

“It is not so terrible a suggestion,” Solas says, a small smile playing at his lips. He leans in to whisper in his ear. “And I believe your five minutes are up.”

Dorian has never been one to lack a witty comeback, but Solas always leaves him speechless with a few quiet words and a smile.

He grasps Solas's hand and leads them both back towards the fortress.

*******

The months pass, and Dorian begins to wonder if time is only ever borrowed.

“What will you do when all of this is over?” Solas asks one morning, as Dorian lies draped across his chest. They should really have been out of bed some time ago, but they both seem loath to leave the warm haven they’ve carved out together. Dorian has been reading aloud from a Magisterium text on ancient Elvhenan, laughing at Solas’s increasingly pained expressions. 

“Provided I survive, of course.”

“Do not speak like that,” Solas whispers, placing his fingers on Dorian lips. “Please.”

Dorian takes his hand. “Well, I suppose I bask in the adoration of the grateful citizens of Thedas. I will have just saved the world, of course.”

Solas just looks at him with those swirling grey eyes, and Dorian knows he can’t joke his way out of this conversation.

He sighs. “Do you remember what you told me once? That if I wanted to claim a group identity, I had to take the bad with the good?”

“I remember.”

“You were right. Everything that is wrong with the Magisterium, everything that is wrong with Tevinter - that belongs to me. But if it belongs to me, then I have the power to change it.”

“So you would try and fix the ills of the past?”

“No. You cannot ‘fix’ the past. It is done.” Dorian replies. 

“But you would try and create a better future?”

“No,” Dorian says again. He sighs. “I would try and change the present. The future is too complicated. You try and plan it too rigorously, and you’ll only be disappointed.”

He raises himself up to whisper in Solas’s ear. “You have to leave room for surprises,” he murmurs. “That’s where the pleasure lies.”

He feels a shiver run down Solas’s neck, and his hand tightens where it rests upon Dorian’s hip.

Dorian settles himself against Solas's side. “Dorian Pavus, reforming the Magisterium from within, renouncing the old ways…would anyone believe it?”

“You do yourself an injustice,” Solas says.

“You just want a dashing, heroic lover,” Dorian smirks, pressing a kiss to the side of Solas’s jaw.

“I believe I already have one of those.”

Dorian feels warmth spreading through his whole body, and he tilts Solas’s chin so he can look him in the eyes. “Come with me,” he blurts out.

Solas sighs. He disentangles himself from Dorian, and turns to sit on the side of the bed. “The Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf.”

“I know, but -”

“No, Dorian,” Solas says firmly.

Dorian feels his stomach twist. “You cannot let me go alone, I wouldn’t last a day without you to pull me back from some hare-brained charge into danger.”

Solas doesn’t respond, and Dorian knows he won’t get anything else out of him. 

“Stubborn bastard,” he mutters, but he lets the matter drop.

“I have a meeting with the Inquisitor soon, I had best prepare.” Solas reaches across to the small table next to the bed, picking up the jawbone pendant he always wears around his neck.

“Why do you wear that ridiculous thing?” Dorian asks.

“It is…a testament to some things of which I would always be reminded.”

“Be careful,” Dorian says. “If you wear your past like a noose around your neck, it will be bound to strangle you one day.” He slides over to sit behind Solas, wrapping his own arms around his neck. “There are better things to adorn yourself with.”

“Oh, _ara’len dan_ ,” Solas says, covering Dorian’s hands with his own.

“You keep calling me that. What does it mean?” Dorian asks curiously.

Solas pauses. “Insufferable ass,” he replies. He swiftly turns to pin him to the bed, and Dorian loses himself for a time under his quiet, careful attentions. 

Later, when Solas has gone to speak with the Inquisitor and Dorian is alone in the rotunda, he seeks out a Dalish lexicon on one of the bookshelves. He has to piece together a few phrases, but eventually he figures it out.

“My bright jewel,” he says quietly. 

He never questions Solas about it. He just holds it tight to his heart, letting it warm his soul like the flare of his own magic, like his own private flame.

He holds that flame for two years.

*******

_Dorian dreams._

_He dreams of a stone statue holding a bright shard in its mouth. It blinds him when he tries to look at it._

_He dreams of a board of chess, the pieces made of stone too heavy to lift._

_He dreams of a wolf with sad eyes who watches him from atop a hill._


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian stands on the balcony of the Winter Palace, lost in the memory of another night, more than two years ago. 

He thinks that time is a strange enchantress. Two long years filled with change and progress at the Magisterium, but those few months he shared with Solas still burn more brightly and vividly in his memory.

He hears footsteps approach and he turns with anticipation, swallowing his disappointment when he sees Leliana standing in the doorway. 

“Dorian,” she says. She looks tired and disturbed, and she’s not wearing her Divine robes.

“What’s happened?” he asks, instantly alarmed. “Is the Inquisitor back?”

“I think you had better come with me.”

*******

He staggers out of the palace and into the cool night air. Leaning his head against the stone of the palace wall, he takes breath after shuddering breath.

He’d listened silently as the Inquisitor had slowly explained what had happened in the Elven ruins. He’d clenched his fists as he heard them explain Solas’s - _no, Fen’Harel’s_ \- plan to tear down the Veil.

And the Inquisitor had sat there, pale and drawn, the remains of their arm bandaged tightly, and had looked at him with compassion and pity.

Dorian heart churns with more emotions he can name - rage, betrayal, fear, shame, confusion, and desperation. But more than anything, his traitorous heart leaps at the thought that Solas is only one eluvian away.

He storms into the palace library, startling the two guards stationed in front of the eluvian.

“Move.” Dorian snaps.

They exchange a glance.

“Commander Cullen’s orders-“

He takes a step forward. “Move,” he snarls. He doesn’t know what they see in his face, but they both hastily step out of his way. 

“But Magister Pavus, you’re not even armed!” he hears one of them cry as he walks through the eluvian.

*******

He emerges in an ancient ruin, broken eluvians scattered around his feet. He can smell smoke and ash. Ahead of him, he sees a familiar profile standing on a hill, his back to Dorian, hands clasped behind him.

His heart skips a beat. It skips more than one when he gets close enough to see the armour Solas is wearing. It hugs the curve of his hips and his thighs, and for a moment Dorian forgets his anger and simply stares.

Solas turns around. “Dorian,” he says calmly. “You should not have come.”

His calm facade is infuriating. Dorian’s rage resurges to course through his body. It feels as though his skin is on fire. “Do I need to offer you one of my limbs?” he snarls sarcastically. “I’m thinking my left leg, it’s my least favourite.” It’s not how he wanted to greet Solas after two long years, but he can’t quite stop himself from lashing out like a child.

Solas’s face doesn’t change. “How is the Inquisitor?”

“Well, they’ll live,” Dorian says sharply.

Solas lowers his gaze. “It was unfortunate, but necessary.”

“And what about lying to me for all of those months? I suppose that was necessary too?”

“What would you have had me say?” Solas snaps. “That I was the great Dalish nightmare in the flesh?”

“That would have been a start!” Dorian cries. “Did you think I wouldn’t have tried to understand? That I know nothing about guilt, or mistakes, or the weight of a legacy?”

“It is not the same.”

“No, of course it is not the same, you utter fool! That’s why it’s called understanding.”

He takes a step closer.

“Answer me one question, _Fen’Harel,_ ” he says roughly.

“Do not call me that.”

“Why not? It is your name, is it not?”

“Not to you,” Solas says softly. 

Dorian begins to feel something shattering in his chest, but he holds tightly to his anger, stoking the fire in his gut. “Fine. One question, Solas."

His tongue has curled around those soft syllables so many times, in shouts and smiles and desperate gasps, but now they feel like ashes in his mouth.

"Why? What offends you so much about the world that you would throw it all away?”

“This world should never have come to pass,” Solas replies.

“You do not get to decide that!”

“Did you not make the same decision at Redcliffe Castle?”

Dorian throws up his hands. “The last time I checked, none of us were trapped in a dungeon or growing lyrium out of our bodies.”

“You do not understand, Dorian!” Solas looks agitated, his hands clenched by his sides. “This world…it was like a shadow had been thrown over the sun. Like all of the colour had been leeched away.”

“Was.” Dorian says firmly.

Solas looks at him with confusion.

“It was, you said, the implication being that it isn’t any more.”

Solas looks away. “I…no.”

“Then why?”

“You went back to Tevinter to take responsibility for the mistakes of your kin, did you not? To try and free those that had been enslaved?”

“No, I went back to Tevinter because you upped and disappeared!” Dorian cries.

Solas looks ashamed.

“I had thought…I thought it would be easier for you.”

“No,” Dorian says. “There are two of us in this relationship. You do not get to make decisions for the both of us.”

“You do not understand,” Solas says again.

“No, I bloody well don’t understand!” Dorian runs a hand through his hair in frustration. 

“This is the only choice I have.”

“You cannot stand there and tell me you honestly believe that?”

He reaches out and grips Solas’s arm. 

“You are wrong, Solas. Whatever you’ve convinced yourself, you are completely, utterly wrong.”

“Dorian, let go,” Solas sighs.

“But you have always been right about me. I am reckless, and rash, and I have no reserve. Not in war, not in magic, and most certainly not in love.”

Solas's grey eyes flicker to his own.

“Whatever it is you’re searching for, you will not find it where you’re going,” Dorian takes a step closer, placing Solas’s hand on his own chest. “I do not believe it is out there, and neither do you. I know you don’t.”

Solas makes a small, wounded noise. “Oh, _ara’len dan_ ,” he sighs. "You cannot help me.”

“How many times, you stubborn bastard? That decision is not yours to make alone.”

Letting go of Solas’s wrist, he reaches across to his own arm, where a jewelled Tevinter dragon is embroidered around his sleeve. “I looked that up, you know,” he says, prising one of the small gems loose. “Bright jewel.”

He slides a hand along Solas’s neck until his fingers find the telltale cord, and he pulls the pendant into his hand. It’s warm from sitting against Solas’s chest.

“You told me you wear this as a testament,” he says, glancing up. Solas is staring at him, eyes wide.

He slides the gem into the small hollow at the top of the bone. It fits perfectly. “A reminder of memories that should not be forgotten.”

Ripping a thread loose from his sleeve with his teeth, he ties the gem in place. It glitters red and gold against the dark bone. “Well, if you wish to wear that thing so close to your heart,' he says, his breath hitching on the word, 'it should reflect what lies within it.”

He slips it back beneath Solas's armour.

“Dorian,” Solas whispers brokenly. “Oh, my love.” He grips the back of his head and pulls him into a desperate kiss.

Dorian can taste the salt of tears. He’s not sure which one of them is crying. 

“I am so sorry,” Solas murmurs against his lips. There’s a flash of light, and Dorian staggers back, his arm automatically shielding his eyes.

When the light fades, Solas is gone. The eluvian behind him lies shattered on the ground.

“I will NOT give up on you!” Dorian shouts at the shards of glass, sinking to his knees. “You stubborn bastard…I won’t. Not ever.”

*******

_Dorian dreams._

_He has never wanted to be a magister, and he has never been a Somniari. But he shapes the world around him as best he can, in both his dreaming and waking life._

_He takes the fraying green tapestry and he turns it to every colour in the universe._

_He pulls the jewel from the statue and he holds it tightly in his hands._

_He lets the ocean rage wild and reckless and free._

_He thinks of seawater, and sweat, and tears, and he wakes with the taste of salt on his tongue._

_Every night, his dreams dissolve into the black as consciousness returns to claim him. But he does not fear the rushing darkness. Because every night, he sees it, and every night, it grows stronger: a tiny light that shines red and gold, flickering in time with the beat of his heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written for the 2017 Black Emporium exchange, for [dawnstonedagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstonedagger/pseuds/dawnstonedagger), who asked for a story about what Solas sees in Dorian. They also requested “Solas catching feelings and doing exactly what he did to Lavellan, only to Dorian, whom I think would be hellbent on saving someone who still loves him, crazy elf wolf-god or not." I may have got a bit carried away. I had never really considered this pair before, but I am on this train for life now. Writing this fic was a joy - thank you for the brilliant prompt. 
> 
> Some of Solas and Dorian’s dialogue is lifted directly, or very closely, from in-game dialogue. I have taken generous liberties with both the way that magic works in the Dragon Age universe and with the Elven language. 
> 
> The Elven is taken from [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850) incredible resource. 
> 
> _Pala adahl’en_ \- literally, ‘go fuck a forest’.
> 
>  _Vyn alas’niremah i’em?_ \- will you dance with me?
> 
>  _Ara’len dan_ \- _Ara’len_ is a poetic way to say ‘male partner’; _dan_ means jewel, or treasure, so I sandwiched them together to make them say what I wanted. Pretty sure that’s not how Elven works. Fight me, Bioware.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the Bleachers’ song ‘You’re Still A Mystery’.


End file.
